


Te Veo

by irishavalon



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 15:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13251606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishavalon/pseuds/irishavalon
Summary: A year has passed, and now it is Dia de los Muertos again. Miguel worries that in spite of everything, he might have been still too late to save Papa Hector.





	Te Veo

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains some Spanish words and sentences. I've been learning/using Spanish for about twelve years, but it's not my first language, so I may have still made some translation mistakes. My apologies in advance, but I hope you like this anyway!

“Miguel, wake up,  _ mijo _ !  _ Hoy es Día de los Muertos _ .”

Miguel opens his eyes to see Mamá standing over him, already wearing her workshop apron. She's holding his sleeping  _ hermanita _ in her arms and smiling down at him.

He feels a swooping in his stomach; it's his favorite day of the year, and he's excited. But he's worried, too. Last year, when he'd returned from the Land of the Dead just in time, Mamá Coco had remembered Papá Héctor as the sun rose over Santa Cecilia. But Miguel has no way of knowing if he'd been in time. Was Héctor still in the Land of the Dead? Would he be able to return tonight, when the family finally put his picture on the  _ ofrenda _ ? Or had he vanished in a cloud of swirling, golden mist, just after he'd sent Miguel home?

Miguel fears he was too late. He fears Papá Héctor is gone forever. He fears his  _ bisabuelo _ was not there to greet Mamá Coco at long last, when she crossed over into the afterlife in the spring. Miguel can do nothing but hope and pray, and he has been hoping and praying for nearly a year.

“Miguel?” his mother is still peering at him. He's sitting up now, but realizes he hasn't spoken a word to her. “Are you all right,  _ amor _ ?”

Miguel swallows and forces himself to smile at her. “ _ Sí, por supuesto _ , Mamá.” And then he is up and following Mamá out the door.

He washes up and gets dressed. As he prepares for the day, another fear catches him. He knows this one as well as the other. It's crept up on him this week especially. He has spent the last year worried that Héctor is gone forever, and when he thinks of his family in the afterlife, this is the nagging thought that has taken control of him. But as the days began to shorten once more, and his little  _ pueblo _ began preparations for today, another thought came to him. How would he know Papá Héctor was okay? Would he be able to see his  _ bisabuelo _ , like he had last year?

Abuelita is frying tortillas and chorizo in the kitchen for breakfast when he comes in. She smiles at him, dusts flour off her hands and kisses his cheek when he gets close enough. “Buenos días, mijo.”

“Buenos días, Abuelita.”

“My, how tall you are getting, Miguel! Your ancestors will scarcely recognize you tonight! You are becoming a man.” she says, giving her grandson a fond smile. Miguel returns her gaze with an uncertain smile of his own. She frowns. “What is it,  _ mi nieto _ ?”

Of all his relatives, Abuelita and Mamá Coco are the only two to whom he told the whole story of his adventures on last Día de los Muertos. And only they believe him when he insists it was not a dream. Oh, a dream sent by the ancestors, his parents and  _ familia _ agree, but a dream nonetheless. Mamá Coco understood, though, and so does Abuelita. Miguel thinks it's because they two alone remember Mamá Imelda (and Papá Héctor, in Mamá Coco's case).

Still, he has kept his fears to himself. He didn't want to upset Mamá Coco with the possibility that he was too late, that Héctor might not be waiting for her when she passed on. Instead, he has spent his afternoons after school practicing Papá's music, playing the songs softly as lullabies for Mamá Coco before she died and now for little Socorro, and beginning to write music of his own. He plays his songs quietly in his room, only showing them to Abuelita or Mamá or Papá when he feels they are perfect. And he has the perfect song ready for tonight, one no one has heard yet. One just for Papá Héctor. But what if---

“Miguel?” Abuelita prompts again. Miguel bites his lip; he feels like he's going to cry, and thirteen-year-olds don't cry.

“I'm scared, Abuelita,” he murmurs finally. Abuelita's face softens, and she comes closer to him.

“Mijo,  _ de que estás asustado _ ? Today is a day for joy, not fear.”

“What if....” His lip trembles, and his voice shakes when he continues. “What if I was too late? What if Papá Héctor is gone? And how will I know if he's okay?”

“Ay, mi amor,” Abuelita says gently, pulling Miguel into a tight hug. “ _ Necesitas tener fé. _ You simply must have faith that he will be here tonight. You have put his picture on the ofrenda, we will make his  _ comidas favoritas _ , we will make a path of petals. That is all we can do; the rest we must leave up to him.  _ Entiendes _ ?”

“Sí, Abuelita,” Miguel says, but he isn't comforted. But there is nothing for it. So he sits at the breakfast table, surrounded by tíos and primos and his parents. He helps his cousins prepare the shoes for sale until Abuelita tells him he may go practice for tonight.

He retreats to his room with a sigh, and his fears, blended with the excitement of the holiday, return to him as he sits down on the bed and takes Papá Héctor's beautiful guitar out of the new case Mamá and Papá gave him on his last  _ cumpleaños _ . The niños have started laying out the trail of petals, much better than they did last year. He can hear the distant merry making from the plaza, the singing from the  _ cementerio _ .

“ _ Venga esta noche, Bisabuelito. Por favor _ ,” he murmured as he passed the room with the ofrenda, with the  _ foto _ of Papá Héctor, Mamá Imelda, and Mamá Coco in the place of honor at the top, in a brand-new frame.

Now, he places his left hand on the strings for the beginning chord, and quietly strums the opening music. He practices as quietly as he can, as though keeping the new song a secret not only from his living relatives, but from his dead ones, as well.

_ “Say that I'm crazy, or call me a fool, _

_ But last night it seemed that I dreamed about you....” _

He changes a chord here and there; he wants it to sound like himself, but also Papá Héctor. He wants it to sound like Abuelita's heart, Mamá Coco's, Mamá Imelda's. He wants it to sound like Papá Julio’s rusty baritone, Tía Gloria's warble, Tío Berto's tapping foot. He wants it to sound like Papá's hammer, Mamá's swishing hips, Socorro's bubbling laugh. He wants it to sound like  _ familia _ , like  _ hogar _ .

An hour later, he's practiced so much he's comfortable with the final product. There's a knock on his door just as he replaces his guitar in the case. “Miguel?” His mamá calls through the closed door. “Could you watch your hermanita for a bit? I need to help Abuelita with the last of the food.”

He takes Socorro to the ofrenda to calm his nerves and to distract her from being away from their Mamá. He bounces her in his arms until she giggles and claps her hands. He gives her a petal from one of the marigolds to play with as he explains to her about the ofrenda and introduces her to her familia. He points to each portrait and tells her each name, picturing their  _ calavera _ faces in the Land of the Dead, hearing his clear memory of their voices in his head.

Abuelita comes in as Miguel finishes telling Socorro of her familia. She smiles at the two of them as she places a foto of Mamá Coco at the front of the ofrenda. She takes little Socorro from him and winks.

“They'll be coming soon. Go get your guitar.” She says. Miguel must look nervous, for she adds, “You will do wonderfully, mijo.  _ Y tenga fé _ .” Miguel nods, and goes to get his guitar.  _ Please, please, please _ , he thinks desperately.  _ Tengo fé, tengo fé, tengo fé. _

Miguel carries the guitar case out to the courtyard, where Mamá and Rosa are setting a long table. Through the gate, the Santa Cecilia Walking Tour is just passing by on the sidewalk. In the street, people walk towards the plaza at the center of town. Miguel watches the procession longer than he needs to; he has watched this celebration from inside the family  _ hacienda _ all his life.

And then he sees it. A stately woman in a turquoise skirt is walking carefully down the lane. Miguel cannot see her face, but suddenly two laughing boys run down the road, right  _ through _ the woman. Miguel cannot believe his eyes; he blinks as the boys continue running down the  _ calle _ , as the woman continues walking, unfazed. Then she turns, looking briefly into the courtyard. She does not notice him watching her, but he sees the painted calavera that is her face. This woman is dead.

Miguel's heart is thundering in his chest.  _ I can see her _ . She passes on, moving towards her family's ofrenda. Miguel doesn't notice his cousin and mother go back inside, his young primos chasing Dante around the side of the house and out of sight. He doesn't notice he's alone in the courtyard as he swallows and his stomach flips. So now he can see the dead. Emotions fill him, chasing each other around in his body. He'll get to see Mamá Coco again. He'll see his uncles smile at him. He'll hear Mamá Imelda's voice. These revelations fill him with excitement and anticipation. But what if Papá Héctor is gone? What if he never sees his bisabuelo again? What if, what if, what if....

_ Tenga fé _ , his abuelita's voice fills his mind. He swallows again, breathes in deep. “Tengo fé,” he whispers. And then he hears laughter just around the corner, out in the street. His heart skips a beat.

“He might be taller than you now, Coco.”  _ Mamá Imelda _ . And laughter follows her words.

“What do you think of that?” It’s one of his tíos, he can’t be sure which.

“And I can’t wait to see the baby!”  _ Mamá Coco. _

It feels like forever to Miguel before the first relative enters the courtyard. The slightest tip of a straw hat appears around the whitewashed archway, and Miguel almost drops the precious guitar. Papá Héctor steps into the courtyard, looking a mixture of pleased and anxious. Miguel slowly sets the case down on the cobblestones, his heart sprinting in his chest, tears pricking behind his eyes. And then Héctor sees Miguel, realizes he's looking right at him, and his eyes widen.

“Miguel? Can you see me?” he says, taking another step into the courtyard that was once his home. Mamá Imelda, Mamá Coco, and the others appear behind him, but Miguel only has eyes for his bisabuelo.

“Papá Héctor!” Miguel shouts, and then he's racing towards Héctor. Héctor grins, lets out a joyous  _ grito _ .

“Hey, Chamaco!”

A second before Miguel reaches Héctor, it occurs to him that though he can see his ancestors, and hear them, he may not be able to touch them. After all, those two boys ran right through that  _ señora _ . But he can't stop, and he's so grateful that Papá Héctor is all right, that he doesn't stop before his bisabuelo. He reaches out his arms, closes the few steps that now separate them, and--

Miguel wraps his arms tightly around Papá Héctor, who hugs him back. The other relatives behind Héctor are greeting Miguel and asking him questions: Coco wants to know about his sister, Imelda about the business, the brothers about the town. But Miguel can't answer, for he is too busy telling Héctor all about the changes, now that the truth about de la Cruz has come out. He shows Papá Héctor the new case, lets him run his hands along (or rather, through) his old guitar. (“You're taking such good care of it, mijo,” he says, and Miguel shares his smile, swelling with pride.)

And then the relatives are coming out of the hacienda. Mamá Coco brightens at the sight of Abuelita, still holding Socorro in her arms. (“ _ Te parece cuando era nina, mi amor _ ,” Héctor tells Mamá Coco, “She looks like you when you were little.”) Miguel smiles at Abuelita as Mamá, Papá, and the others come into the courtyard.

“ _ Están aqui _ ,” Miguel whispers to Abuelita, “They're here.”

“You can see them?” Abuelita says, eyes widening in surprise. Miguel nods, his smile so wide his face hurts. Abuelita smiles, too. “ _ Y mi abuelo _ ,” she adds, “And my grandfather. I can tell he is here by the look on your face.” Miguel nods again.

“Miguel, how about some music!” Tío Berto calls. Miguel sees Héctor turn from where he has been taking in the rest of the family, his wide smile a perfect match to Miguel's, and he meets Miguel's gaze. He nods, and Miguel takes the guitar out of the case. Watching Papá Héctor, Miguel takes a deep breath. Unheard by the living relatives, save for Miguel, Héctor lets out a grito, and Miguel joins in to cheers from the family, living and dead.

“I wrote this song myself,” Miguel says, and begins to play. He looks around at each of his relatives as he plays the opening chords, and watches their smiles widen, the pride clear in their eyes. He breathes in, and begins to sing.

_ “Say that I'm crazy, or call me a fool, _

_ But last night it seemed that I dreamed about you, _

_ When I opened my mouth, what came out was a song, _

_ And you knew every word, and we all sang along....” _

As the beat of the song speeds up, Mamá grabs Papá's hands and they begin to dance. Abuelita and Socorro clap their hands, Papá Héctor spins Mamá Imelda. This is the happiest Día de los Muertos Miguel can remember, as he plays and sings and watches his family.

_ “Our love for each other will live on forever, _

_ In every beat of my proud corazon!” _

Papá Héctor comes over, smiling broadly, and reaches out his hands. He takes a ghost copy of the guitar from Miguel and accompanies him, every chord a perfect match to Miguel's.

_ “Ay mi familia, oiga mi gente _

_ Canten a coro, let it be known _

_ Our love for each other will live on forever _

_ In every beat of my proud corazon!” _

The cheers and applause are deafening in Miguel's ears. Miguel looks out at his family, trying to commit all he sees and hears to memory: Socorro's laughter, Mamá's panting from dancing so much, the glistening sweat Papá wipes from his brow, Abuelita's clapping, Mamá Imelda's proud smile, Papá Héctor's grito. 

And he is so, so proud to be a Rivera.


End file.
